


a glimpse through an interstice caught

by sophiegaladheon



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: Holster fights his blooming panic as breath steals from his lungs, the deep-set ache of stems and petals rooted in his chest spiking sharply.  The pain and the flowers have been his constant companions for so long now he hardly ever notices, as omnipresent as the feelings that cause them, as they writhe and force their way up his throat.  He notices now and chokes it all back.
Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51
Collections: OMGCP Reverse Bang 2020





	a glimpse through an interstice caught

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my contribution to the 2020 OMGCP Reverse Bang! This story is inspired by Tony's incredible art, which you can find [HERE](https://shadowfaerieammy.tumblr.com/post/620121644468469760/heres-the-art-for-the-first-of-many-omgcp-reverse).
> 
> The title is from Walt Whitman's poem 'A Glimpse'

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168838868@N03/49975097622/in/dateposted-friend/)

The cheerfully stuffy, generically collegial surroundings of the room go sharp, hard, and airless as Coach Hall reads out his proclamation. Holster fights his blooming panic as breath steals from his lungs, the deep-set ache of stems and petals rooted in his chest spiking sharply. The pain and the flowers have been his constant companions for so long now he hardly ever notices, as omnipresent as the feelings that cause them, as they writhe and force their way up his throat. He notices now and chokes it all back. 

The green taste of chlorophyll still clings to the back of his throat. He swallows it down, drowned under a wash of celebratory Champagne.

That can’t be right. It can’t be him. This isn’t something he wants to do by himself.

It is only—that brief half-second having passed like an eon, a blink, an age—when Coach Hall continues _And Justin Oluransi_ that Holster finds he can breathe again, the twisting, creeping constriction in his throat and lungs relaxed once more. He inhales his relief, shouts his joy. Slaps his best friend in the world hard across the back in the accepted tradition of homo-social congratulatory gestures and is himself joyfully walloped in return.

The tension relaxes, the aura of wrongness dissipates. For a fraction of a second, Holster lets himself relax, sagging against Ransom as the combination of joy and relief hits him with a knee-weakening cocktail that has him giddy and grinning ear-to-ear. The pressure of Ransom’s arm around his shoulders banishes the tightness in his chest, too, and Holster inhales deeply, savoring the contact.

Then the rest of the team is upon them and they are pulled apart, into the outpouring of hugs and backslaps and fist bumps that mean the world to Holster—the congratulations of this team that _knew_ , that somehow managed to vote both him and Ransom into the captaincy, that _wanted_ them in that position—but for some reason (a reason he knows but will acknowledge) never feels quite right.

* * *

No one has ever accused Adam Birkholtz of shyness. Or circumspection. Or tact.

Big, friendly, gregarious Adam Birkholtz? That guy is an open book, everybody knows that. A bit too loud sometimes, a bit too in your face. But a good dude, it is said, the kind of guy you can count on to have your back on the ice and get you into the best parties.

Adam knows his reputation, of course. He’s proud of it, his reputation for brazen openness and straightforward honesty. At worst he’d be accused of being _too_ friendly, _too_ outgoing, _too_ open about his emotions. 

He’s never minded when people didn’t like him. Really, what would be the point of subterfuge? It always seemed much more practical just to get things out in the open, to let the joy or the anger or the irritation run their course. It’s certainly better than trying to repress it.

After all, what’s the worst that could come from honesty?

* * *

It’s a hot, sunny summer day when Adam first meets Justin Oluransi. 

The whole team is lined up outside Faber before their first-ever practice, and Adam is practically bursting with excitement. He hasn’t been this excited to get on the ice and play hockey since he was a little kid begging his mom for ten more minutes of outdoor pond hockey with his friends, his nose numb and the sun low enough in the sky that he can barely see the puck.

It’s a pretty damn fantastic feeling.

The weather, on the other hand, is not. 

Slumping in the scant shade offered by Faber’s overhanging roof, he digs through his bag looking for sunscreen. He’s not looking forward to spending his first week of college with a sunburn bright enough to double as a stoplight. Adam takes off his sunglasses and smears his SPF 50 all over his face.

There’s a ripple of sound behind him, then a sharp bump jolts his elbow, jamming his sunscreen-covered fingers into his eye socket.

Adam lets out a curse and turns to look (squint) in pained annoyance behind him. When his eyes finally focus enough to let him see, he hastily wipes the streaks of sunscreen from his face with the both of his hands, his emotions ping-ponging back and forth between annoyance and embarrassment fast enough that he just knows that it will be pure luck if the next thing out of his mouth isn’t something hideously stupid.

The guy behind him is almost as tall as he is ( _and cute_ , supplies a traitorous part of his brain before the rest of him shuts that shit right down), wearing an apologetic, embarrassed smile.

“Sorry man. You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, no big,” Adam says, trying simultaneously to smile his trademark ‘let’s-be-friends’ grin and rub sunscreen out of his stinging eye with the back of his hand. He’s pretty sure the effect is coming off more ‘deranged pirate’ than ‘functional human being’, but what can you do? 

“And this is what we call a meet-cute.”

“What?” Adam turns his chemically-irritated eyes to squint at a hazy figure leaning against the building a few feet down the line. Adam blinks and starts to worry about the long-term effects of sunscreen on vision.

The guy shakes his head. “Sorry, don’t mind me. I’m Johnson, goalie. But I’m not narratively important to this story, so you just carry on with your inciting incident.”

Adam looks over at the guy who bumped into him. The guy shrugs and mouths ‘goalies?’, one eyebrow impeccably arched. Adam looks back and forth between the guy and Johnson, who has already wandered off down the line of players to bother some of the other freshmen. He nods. Goalies.

“I’m Justin, by the way.”

“Adam.”

With a handshake, the introduction that would make Samwell Men’s Hockey history was made.

It would be almost another year before Adam would start to figure out what exactly Johnson had been talking about. (Maybe. You could never be sure with Johnson.)

* * *

Playing with Justin (now Ransom) is incredible. Adam (now Holster) has never played hockey like this in his _life_. And he has played _a lot_ of hockey.

It’s like they can read each other’s minds on the ice and, while they might not be the best D-pair the team has (yet), people notice. Their teammates notice. Their coaches notice. Their _opponents_ notice. Holster especially notices.

It’s absolutely amazing, incredibly impressive, freaking fantastic, and a whole bunch of other superlatives that he would list if only Ransom hadn’t forcibly stolen his thesaurus from his hands and hidden it, fending off his protestations and grasping hands with his wide shoulders and the argument that Holster could have it back to continue to proclaim their mutual awesomeness _after_ they finished their homework.

(The actual schoolwork is the one part of college that Holster is definitely not thrilled by. But he’s no dummy and he’s going to get his degree.)

The other person who is not a dummy is Ransom. He is, in fact, the opposite of a dummy. Holster continuously finds himself in awe of how smart his D-partner is. 

He’s funny, too, and handsome and charming, and great at wheeling chicks. And sure, the team may chirp them for being attached at the hip, but truly. Holster has the _best_ best friend ever.

* * *

When he and Ransom manage to earn joint dibs on the Haus attic, it seems like the perfect way to cap off an incredible year. After all, what could make the next year even better than spending it rooming with his best friend?

* * *

The universe, as it turns out, has a funny sense of humor.

* * *

The fall of sophomore year is miserable for Holster. Everyone had told him that freshman year would be the worst; that the big adjustment from junior hockey to a full-time academic environment would be the most significant hurdle he would have to overcome.

They lied.

Freshman year was fun, everything was exciting and new.

Sophomore year is the _worst_. 

His classes are harder, the workload heavier. The cafeteria took his favorite carrot cake off the menu. And he’s _not clicking with Ransom_.

It’s more noticeable on the ice. The smooth, synchronized partnership they had worked so hard to perfect last year is nowhere to be found. Instead, it’s like they’ve been replaced with alien doppelgangers—they look the same on the outside, but inside everything is all wrong. Holster hasn’t felt this disconnected from his own body since his last growth spurt.

The coaches aren’t happy. Their teammates aren’t happy. Jack sure isn’t happy. Holster isn’t happy with himself. But above all, he can’t stand what this is doing to Ransom.

Ransom, Holster has learned, is very good at pretending to be fine when he is not. He doesn’t allow himself to fall apart in front of people he doesn’t trust. But the minute he’s safe, behind a closed door alone or with those he does trust, those carefully constructed supports come crashing down.

Sometimes the stress is just too much, and the breakdown comes before Ransom is in a place where he feels secure. Those are the worst—Holster hates to see Ransom like that any time, but knowing his bro is feeling extra vulnerable is the worst.

Holster can see the tension building—in the tension in Ransom’s jaw, in the furrow between his eyes—and there’s a corresponding nausea in his gut. They have to get this straightened out before things explode.

Lying in bed that night, Holster kicks the bunk above. “Bro,” he says.

“Ugh, seriously bro?”

“I wanna talk. I’m worried.”

“You want to come up?”

Holster grins and scrambles up the ladder, wedging himself into the narrow bunk not at all designed to hold two hockey defencemen.

“What’d you want to talk about?” Ransom asks, still a little muzzy and half-asleep.

“I’m worried.”

“Yeah, you said.” Holster can hear the eye roll even if he can’t see it in the low light.

“Shut up. We’re not playing good hockey and the coaches might split us up and you’re not happy. So, you’re fucking right I’m worried.”

Ransom groaned. “This is much too serious of a conversation to be having at”—there is a faint blue glow from a digital watch—“two thirty-seven in the morning. Go to sleep, we can Excel the hell out of the problem in the morning. I’ve been collecting data."

Holster grinned. Of course, Ransom would be on top of the problem. He never should have doubted the spreadsheet king.

“And pull up the blankets or the ghosts are going to creep on your ass.”

* * *

The first petals appear in the lonely depths of winter break, as gently threatening as the first sprinkling of snowflakes drifting down to herald a blizzard. They sit—innocuous, damning, slightly covered in saliva—in the palm of Holster’s hand, two little stripes of red marking his idiocy in no uncertain terms.

The door to his room opens and Holster slumps back onto his pillows, letting his hand curl around the petals. The smell of his mom’s chicken soup—the kind that can cure anything short of death and quite possibly that as well—reaches him before the door is even fully open, and his stomach perks up and takes notice. 

His mom slides into the room, a tv tray carefully maneuvered in after her. “Do you think you could eat something?” she asks. Holster nods, and moves up so the tray can be deposited in his lap. “Shout if you need anything, okay?”

Holster nods and she slips out, leaving him once again alone with his accursed, stupid flowers. He stares at the petals, the other hand absentmindedly stirring his steaming bowl of soup. 

Guilt gnaws at his gut. Getting soup and ice cream room service is fine when he’s sick—he’s not too proud to admit he likes his mom fussing over him sometimes, okay? Everyone likes to be taken care of when they’re sick—but it doesn’t feel right when it’s his own damn fault.

And this _is_ his own damn fault.

This sort of thing _doesn’t happen_ unless you’re being an unmitigated dumbass.

Holster’s not an idiot; he’s done the high school sex-ed curriculum. He knows how this stuff works.

He just, he loves Ransom. Like, of course, he loves Ransom. But, apparently, he _loves_ Ransom? 

In retrospect it seems obvious, like, hell yeah, he loves Ransom, and _loves_ him and **loves** him and loves him. Ransom is his best friend and D-partner and roommate and hockey soulmate and apparently Holster would totally be down with kissing him if Ransom were also down for that.

But even if, in retrospect, it seems glaringly obvious that he has some otherwise-than-strictly-platonic feelings for his best bro, it’s bullshit that he managed to make himself sick over them before he ever realized that he had them. In all the books and films and sex-ed horror stories, it has to be something consciously done. You have to purposefully ignore your feelings. You can’t give yourself flowers by accident!

One hasty google search later has Holster dropping his phone on the bedspread in despair and seriously disappointed in the storytelling abilities of Hollywood scriptwriters and Broadway librettists. And the state of the U.S. sex education system.

Since apparently this is totally common and in fact one of the most common forms of the disease. 

But, also apparently, ‘unrealized emotions’ isn’t as narratively interesting as ‘tortured pining.’

Holster groans, his gaze drifting back to the pair of petals clutched in his hand. His throat feels scraped raw. His chest aches. He goes to drop them into the wastebasket beside the bed but pauses. Feeling stupid, he takes a clean tissue, wraps them up, and sticks them between the pair of books stacked on his nightstand. 

His soup is cold and his ice cream is melted. And he’s in love with his best friend.

* * *

Returning to Samwell is torturous. The initial wave of illness recedes, but the flowers remain.

He has whole ones, now, fully formed and well-rooted in his lungs. The heads scratch and choke him when he coughs them up.

They’re gerbera daisies, according to a book from the library. Holster thinks they’re pretty. He hates them.

Their cheerfulness mocks him, and the stupid, insane, _ludicrous_ situation he has found himself in. 

Holster groans and drops the last of his purloined stack of women’s magazines back onto the pile. ( _Check your condescending misogynistic biases_ , cries a mental voice that sounds a lot like Shitty.) Not even the relationship advice columns have any help for him. He is well and truly fucked.

“Girl trouble?” Ransom asks, sliding his desk chair over to Holster’s desk.

Holster jumps. Usually, Ransom in serious study mode can’t be distracted for anything less than a house fire (or Holster waving a hot slice of pizza directly under his nose), so he thought he’d be safe. 

“Nah, bro, it’s fine. No big deal.” He can’t talk about his feelings for Ransom _with_ Ransom.

Oh 

Well. 

Um. 

He can’t talk about his feelings for Ransom with Ransom yet. 

Largely due to the fact that Ransom is his best friend and he doesn’t want to lose that by dumping a bunch of unreciprocated feelings on him (like, he knows Ransom is chill and will be cool about it but still), but also because he, Holster, is not yet ready to face his best friend and the dude he is, in fact, totally in love with, telling him directly that he doesn’t feel the same way. 

It turns out that Adam Birkholtz, cheerful, open, honest Adam Birkholtz, is actually crap at talking about his emotions. And a coward, to boot. 

So that sucks. 

Ransom is looking at him skeptically, but he lets the issue drop. “Alright, man. But you can always talk to me if you need to, you know?” 

Holster nods. He knows. It isn’t happening, but he knows. 

“Then let’s go get dinner, I’m starving. It’s chicken tender night at the cafeteria.” 

“Fantastic.” Holster grabs his jacket and follows Ransom out the door of the attic. 

“Oh, hey, I meant to say, I love the cut flowers. It’s classy.” 

The words make Holster pause in the doorway and glance back into the room. In a fit of melancholic stupidity, he’d stuck some of his flowers in an old solo cup and propped it on the window sill. The blooms are already withered and dying. 

“Thanks,” he says, and shuts the door behind him. 

* * *

The drooping, dying flowers on the windowsill are replaced. Fresh, new blooms, their faces clustered around the rim of the solo cup, take their place. Then the cup is replaced, with a glass jar that once held strawberry jam (thanks Jack) its label peeled off and illegible but stripes of white paper still clinging on. 

Ransom doesn’t ask where he gets the flowers from, and Holster doesn’t say. But sometimes he catches Ransom looking at them, a far-off look in his eyes. 

By the end of the month, a second jar has joined the first, little periwinkle blossoms winking cheerfully next to their brethren. 

* * *

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is filled with the noticeable but not yet choking humidity of late spring. It’s weather that says ‘fetch your swim trunks and an alcoholic beverage of choice, nothing productive is getting done today.’ 

Internally, Holster is more in the mood for some fog, or a late-breaking rainstorm, but regrettably real life isn’t a Broadway musical and the weather is unlikely to be so cooperative enough to mirror his mood. 

He and Ransom make their way back to the Haus in companionable silence—there had been more than enough shouting and congratulations at the banquet. Holster suspects that, were he in a better mood, he might be expected to say something. He is, after all, the one with the big mouth. 

But he can’t. He’s gone too far, he’s in too deep. 

If he opens his mouth, he’s afraid of what he might say. 

He was, for a brief second, deeply, viscerally terrified of being captain by himself, without Ransom. It’s a feeling he won’t soon forget; one he never wants to feel again. But . . . he has to tell Ransom. 

It feels like lying, now, not to. 

That doesn’t mean he’s feeling brave. 

Up in the attic, nearly everything is packed up, ready to go home for the summer. Holster shrugs out of his suit jacket and flops down on his bare mattress. It’s hot in here, too, stifling. His chest feels tight. 

He can see the glass jam jars of flowers, sitting on the windowsill as they have all year. He and Ransom have never talked about them, which is weird for a pair of guys who talk about literally everything else. But they’re always full of water and the flowers are always fresh. 

Ransom sits down on the bed next to him. 

“It’s going to be weird not having Jack and Shits here next year,” he says, “but we’re going to rock the captain thing. I have so many ideas. I can make so many spreadsheets!” 

He sounds as excited as Holster wishes he felt if only there wasn’t this gnawing ache in the center of his chest. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “it’s going to be awesome.” 

Ransom shifts on the mattress. “You okay bro? It sounds like there’s something on your mind.” 

Holster turns, looks over. Ransom is looking at him, the familiar lines of his face twisted into a look of curious concern. Holster tries to take a deep breath but it catches and a cough shudders through him. He clears his throat once, twice. It burns like acid. 

The look on Ransom’s face is a deeper concern now, and Holster closes his eyes. That’s worse. He fixes his gaze on Ransom’s face with an intensity that is probably worrisome. He silently wills Ransom not to look away—he doesn’t think he can do this at all if he does. 

Slowly, carefully, deeply, Holster inhales and opens his mouth to speak. 


End file.
